Fealty
by cerasi1
Summary: The tale of the Knights of the Round Table. Battling Woads and Romans alike, this tracks the lives & loves of our favourite the Knights. Sort of Tristan-centric. SLASH.
1. New Arrivals

Title: Fealty

Author: Cerasi

Pairings: Initially Tristan/Lancelot. Future chapters get much more involved.

Disclaimer: Nobody actually owns the original Knights, but I do owe these particular versions to the makers of that wonderful film King Arthur. I suppose this disclaimer is just filler, isn't it. Few people read them, and I find it hard to believe that anyone, script writer, novelist etc, actually goes through to uncover those dastardly writers who refused to put a disclaimer at the beginning of their fanfic! Evil writers! But, yeh, if you want to sue me then good luck to you. If you manage to find me then I think you deserve money! But I ain't payin' ya diddly squat because I put a disclaimer at the top of my fic, and here goes the fic:)

Knights of the Round Table

Chapter 1: Last Call

Tristan let loose another arrow and it thudded heavily in the tall, dead tree. He sighed contentedly and smiled just a bit as he admired his own marksmanship. Reaching over his shoulder be brought forth and cocked another arrow. He breathed in an out once to concentrate his attention and let fly another perfectly placed shot.

Tristan had been one of the elder boys to be brought from Sarmatia to serve at Hadrian's Wall. The Romans had taken any boy over the age of ten to serve 'the mighty empire'. Tristan had, at that point, been nearly twenty and a fine hunter. His father had never held any hopes of keeping his son from the Romans, and Tristan had grown up without the fanciful images of knights in shining armour, as the other men of the village told it.

Knowing the future his son would have, Tristan's father trained him as a fighter, as well as a hunter for their village. He had learnt swordplay and archery almost as soon as he could walk. His father had been a scout in his days of Roman service, and taught Tristan the same skills with extreme attention to detail.

Tristan stood now, barely months after their departure from Sarmatia, a man of twenty and the finest warrior amongst the latest group of young boys to have been stolen from their families and homeland. The roman officer overseeing their training, having noted Tristan's superior skill and training, had sent him off to practice alone.

Thus Tristan came to be standing just outside the Roman fort at Hadrian's wall, amongst trees at the bottom of Badon hill, when a small party trekked it's way past him and up the small dirt road. Tristan's interest was piqued and he saw the perfect opportunity to test his scout skills on a group of Roman legionnaires.

Tristan slung his bow over his shoulder and left the arrows he had already fired in the tree. He then ducked low and paced quickly behind a tree that would keep him shielded from the Romans. He peered around the tree and then ducked over to the next tree in the same manner as before.

This he repeated until he was mere paces from the road on which the Romans walked their horses. Tristan ran ahead of them, his footsteps light and his position always hidden, and then sprang up into a tree to peer down from the mid-branches. He balanced himself and swung his body partially around so he could peek past the trunk and down onto the road.

The Roman party turned out to be, not just Romans, but a group of young boys surrounded by an escort of the imposing officers. The entire party looked exhausted and bedraggled as their equally tired horses plodded their way along the last stretch of the road. The Romans seemed to brighten ever so slightly as they got closer to the fortress, but the young boys in their company, if possible, seemed to darken further at the approach.

Tristan studied their garb closely. He was certain that they were Sarmatian boys, possibly those mentioned in a report he had heard earlier. If this were truly them, then they would be "the final group of would-be knights. A bunch of troublemakers, they were. Thrice the lot of them ran away, despite warnings and whips."

Tristan recalled laughing to himself when he heard of one boy who had sat his horse silently for the first week of travel before making a break for it and the rest of the boys had followed his example. Another slightly older boy joined the young lad in his plans the second time round, and the rest had followed suit as before.

The third time had been the Roman's greatest trial of the journey. Two of the boys had died of frost and fever respectively on the path, and one was showing similar symptoms. Together the Sarmatian boys had decided on a much more organised plan of attack, and one that involved getting the sick boy to safety. Tristan had not heard all of what had been done, but it involved nighttimes, stolen horses, diversions, and one sick boy managing escape on the fastest horse they had.

Looking down on the group of dishevelled Sarmatian boys, Tristan fancied he could guess those of the tale. He saw one boy under particular surveillance from the Romans, and he held his head higher than the others, though it bore obvious signs of a severe beating. He seemed to be one of the youngest of the group, and one of strong spirit also.

The second boy, Tristan deduced, would be the one whose already dread-locked hair hung to his shoulders. He sat his horse well, but looked about him warily as though ready for attack at any point. He also rode quite close to the first boy and glared away any Roman who dared even look at his friend.

There were three other boys in the small party. Studying them closely Tristan noted a similarity in appearance between two of them and the boy with the dreadlocks. Of these two one looked to be older than the others, maybe fifteen, and the other looked no older than eleven, if that.

The last boy that rode in was the eldest of the lot, seventeen. He rode at the back of the Sarmatian group with his eyes downcast and his sodden hair falling over his face. It seemed to Tristan that on this boy had the journey taken its harshest toll. As they passed Tristan's perch he climbed to the lower branches in silence and leaned as close as he discreetly could. The last boy's face looked grey in its paleness and Tristan shook his head with a sinking heart. The boy was not going to make it.

Tristan dropped out of the tree and scampered quickly around to the training area where, in a low voice, he told the others that "new Sarmatian blood has just arrived." He grinned ever so quickly to himself as the group of four young men dropped and sheathed weapons and moved off toward the fortress entrance. Just as they were leaving the practice yard Percival and Lamorak looked up from where they threw dice across a table.

Lamorak sprang up and grabbed Lancelot by the shoulder and spun him round.

"And where do you think you're off to?" He asked with a growl. Lancelot smiled, though warily as Lamorak was the uncontested strongest knight at Hadrian's Wall.

"New Sarmatian boys." Lancelot said, in an air of reporting.

Lamorak smiled to Percival who watched the encounter with interest. "Boys!" Lamorak laughed. "As though he's anything more himself!" He turned back to the boys, having released Lancelot's shoulder but Percival asked his question before he got a chance.

"How do you know?" He asked, looking about.

"I saw them." Tristan said, looking Percival carefully in the eye as he spoke. "When I was training."

"Hmm." Lamorak smiled. "Sounds good. The main gate?"

The boys looked to Tristan who nodded.

"Right then, Percival. Shall we have a look?"

Percival grinned and stood; poking his head in through the window of the building they were sitting by. A moment later Bedivere and Kay emerged with smiles on their faces and started jogging off toward the main gate, closely followed by Percival, Lamorak and then all the young men who, for all their youth, still struggled to keep up with their veteran senior officers.

They got to the gate just as it was opening to admit the convoy. The Sarmatians weaved their way through the gathering crowd of Romans and Britons to get to the head of the crowd. When they got there the Roman party dismounted but the young boys stayed atop their horses and gazed about with a mixture of apprehension and amazement.

Ronus, the officer in command of the small group, approached the Sarmatians with his head held high, despite his obvious fatigue. He snarled at the Sarmatians, demonstrating the rift that still existed between the two peoples.

"Bedivere." He called. Bedivere had a slight smile on his face as he stepped between Kay and Lamorak to come to the fore of the group.

"Ronus." He said with obviously false nicety. "I see you were successful in kidnapping more children to serve the empire."

"Bedivere, your men are blocking my way. Have them take our horses and clear our passage to the sleeping quarters." He said with a growl.

"Ronus," Kay mocked, stepping forward and using his immense height to force the Roman soldier to back off. "We do not take your orders."

"You take the orders of Rome, Kay. And I am of Rome. Move aside, and do as I say."

"We shall never take orders from the likes of you, Roman filth!" Lamorak sneered as he, too, stepped forward. Tristan and the others watched with enthusiasm as the Romans backed further and further away in the face of these fierce warriors. Already Ronus was standing alone, the rest of his men 'tending to their horses' instead.

"The way I see it, Ronus." Bedivere resumed with a calm tone of voice. "You and your men can see to your own horses, and clearing the road. We shall take this group of Sarmatians," he paused with emphasis, "and get them out of your way. They are, after all, our charge when they reach Hadrian's Wall." He smiled pleasantly and both Kay and Lamorak grinned widely. Percival chuckled to himself and glanced back at the four younger men who were each trying to keep back their laughter. Even Tristan had a wicked smile on his face, and he did not oft show his emotions.

"Fine, then." Ronus glared at the lot of them. "I'll be glad to get rid of the little brats anyway."

"Yes." Percival spoke up from behind Lamorak. "The way I heard it told, those 'little brats' had you chasing them all over the countryside."

Ronus shot him a dark look and turned quickly back to the young boys. "Off you get, then. You're in the Knight's care now and you've no need of horses for the time being." He shouted at the boys. As he approached the spirited young boy who had had them all on the run so often Ronus saw one final opportunity for revenge.

"Off that horse, boy." He said with a dangerous tone and he shot his hand up to the boy's neck and pulled him to the ground with such a force that the boy had no time to react before he was gasping for air in the mud. Before Ronus knew what was happening, though his own face was dug into the same mud and was being held there by a weight pressed firmly on his back.

A few moments later the weight was lifted and Ronus heard shouts as he pulled off his helmet. He looked about wildly until his eyes came to rest upon the dreadlock lad being held back by Lamorak's strong arms while Kay had taken the young boy Ronus had assaulted and the rest of the Sarmatians gathered around the final three boys who they had spirited off the horses.

"That boy deserves punishment!" Ronus shouted. "Hand him over to me now, so that I may deal with him in the Roman fashion!"

"Enough dishevelled young boys have reported to us of the 'Roman fashion' that you deal them with late at night." Percival said with an evil smile before the smile faded and he glared icily. "And I swear you shall never touch a Sarmatian in that manner!"

"Insolent bastard!" Ronus shouted. The other Sarmatians laughed at his expense as the colour rose to his face and turned away before he had time to come up with a reply. As they retreated Lancelot looked up at Percival with a surprised look overcoming his amusement.

"Is that true?" He asked Percival quietly, but all the Sarmatians listened intently. "About the boys?"

"It has happened twice. Each time I ensured that he knew I was aware of it, and he… suffered an illness and a fall both times." Percival smiled. "Not for many months has it happened, and I doubt it shall ever occur again while I live."

The older knights grinned at Percival's wicked ways. He had arrived at the Roman outpost with none of the skills needed for this life but had quickly adapted to the life and had learnt the more subtle ways of dealing with the enemy. The enemy that, when not present, would be replaced with Roman officers at every opportunity.

The group walked through the streets more sedately than before, now having a tired group of youngsters with them. As they went it began to rain and they hastened to the quarters of the Sarmatians. Inside the room that had been set aside for the newly arrived boys they found fires lit and water boiling as well as basic clothes set out and eight pallets on the floor. Huge pots stood over fires at one end of the room for bathing water and several tubs had been brought in and set up.

"Service!" Bors said, clapping one young boy on the shoulder. "Relish it, boys. We haven't seen service this good since we arrived, months ago!"

"And that was the first we'd seen it since we arrived." Lamorak said. He had finally released the shoulders of the young boy with the dreadlocks and watched as the boy went amongst the other lads to check on them.

Bedivere stepped toward the boys and they all stood to attention, acknowledging the command he seemed to possess. They stared at him with varying emotions, but for the ill looking, dark haired boy Tristan had spied earlier, whose sight wavered around the room, occasionally seeming to focus on a face or an object.

"What are your names, boys?" Bedivere asked with a look that told nothing of his emotions if, indeed, he had any at that point. It was the dreadlock lad who stepped forth first. He faced Bedivere, with his alert, blond head tipped down slightly, eyes looking up at Bedivere with an expression that suggested there was defiance in him if he deemed it necessary.

"I am Gawain." He said. "These are my brothers Gaheris and Gareth." He indicated to the two Tristan had thought similar in features. Both boys nodded a greeting. "This is Galahad." He nodded to the young boy who had been thrown to the ground earlier. "And this is Mordred." He turned a worried glance to the ill boy at the back.

"I heard that eight travelled with you. What of the others?" Bedivere asked. He spoke as if expecting a full report from a soldier, not as one usually spoke to a thirteen year old boy.

"Two died on the road of fever, caused by the cold." It was Galahad who spoke this time, an undercurrent of seething anger in his voice. "That Roman bastard had forced them to sleep out in the snow and then wondered that they had not survived." He sneered at the ground as though reliving the events in his mind. "Of the third..." He trailed off and looked at Gawain.

"My brother Agravain travelled with us also." Gawain said. His voice seemed to always slightly muffled, but his words were clearly understood. "But he began getting sick during the second week of travel so… he got away." The guilty look on his face told all.

"So this was the party that made three escape attempts and got one boy away." Percival said, beaming with approval. "Well done, boys. Pity the rest of you didn't escape because we can't let you, now."

The boys looked up at him expecting evil, but all they saw was a look of apology. His expression then changed to one of confusion and almost horror before he leapt forward past the boys.

Percival caught Mordred just before the young boy hit the ground, and lifted the seventeen-year-old's limp form near effortlessly to a pallet on the floor by one of the fires. The boy was shivering all over and his half-lidded eyes shot wildly around the room, no longer seeing anything.

All the Sarmatians froze, except for Tristan who dashed out to his shared chamber and found some herbs and any healing items he held therein. He trotted quickly back to where the young Mordred lay and dropped the items down by Percival's side.

"What happened to him?" Bedivere asked, looking worriedly down to the boy. The other boys mirrored Gawain's expression of fear and anxiety. They all looked at Mordred with a horrified knowledge that he was dying, but they couldn't admit that to themselves. After a moment's inaction Gawain tore over to Mordred's bed and knelt down.

"When the other boys were sent to sleep outside he followed. He went to take care of them because he was the eldest and he thought he should." Gawain explained hurriedly as he looked about for something he could do. "They beat him for doing so, and for a while he looked like he would be alright." He shook his head. "He was doing fine until today. I don't know what's happened to him." Gawain said honestly and desperately.

"He has a fever, Bedivere. But I'll check his body in case he has wounds that may have caused it." Percival said. He was already sorting through Tristan's herbs for things of use to him, occasionally selecting one or two and setting them aside.

"Put him in my chamber." Lamorak offered. "He can take that bed."

The boys watched as Lamorak stooped and lifted the boy to carry him out, followed quickly by Percival who snatched one of the large pots of the water from a fire and took some of Tristan's herbs. Bedivere passed a quick instruction to Kay before he, too departed. Kay closed the door behind them and turned back to the boys.

"He…" Kay suddenly realised he could say nothing to ease the minds of these boys. "You should get some sleep. Or food." He paused uncertainly then continued on, evidently having formed a proper idea in his head. "Bathe yourselves, all of you." He glanced at the older boys. "I shall return to fetch you for food later this evening."

The older boys nodded and Kay turned to follow the rest of the knights to see what must be done. Once he was gone they all turned back to the shocked young boys standing about the room.

"You heard him." Bors said once as he and Dagonet stalked out of the room. Tristan sat by the pallet collecting his herbs and medicines. He glanced up at Lancelot who was looking intently at where the boy, Mordred, had just been, a troubled expression on his face.

He broke away from his troubled thoughts when he heard the sound of a struggle of some sort. He jumped to attention, immediately expecting to find the boys squabbling. When he turned, however, all he saw was Gareth attempting in vain to lift the heavy pot of water from the hook above the fire. Lancelot stared for a moment before veering over to the fire. He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder to draw his attention.

"Together?" He asked, knowing full well he could lift it alone.

Gareth nodded somewhat warily and returned his hands to the handle of the pot. Lancelot counted to three and they pulled the pot off the hook and walked over to the tubs. Here Lancelot lifted it up and Gareth used his sleeves and cloak to protect his hands as he tilted the pot and poured the water. It steamed and hissed as it poured into the tub.

"Now get some cold water so you don't scald yourself." Lancelot instructed. He turned to see Tristan assisting Galahad with the same task and chuckled to himself as he looked at the young boy. "Tristan." He said quietly as he passed. "Perhaps it is best that this one does scald himself."

Tristan raised an eyebrow in question.

"With a face that pretty, he'll soon be rivalling me for the women around here." Lancelot explained with a grin. Galahad caught that comment and gave him a look part way between confusion and anger, not entirely sure what to make of it.

"And what use," Tristan whispered quietly so that none of the boy would hear. "Do you have of women?"

Lancelot playfully threw a discarded washcloth at his comrade and returned the pot to sit beside the fire. Seeing that all others were managing well with their own burdens he and Tristan left the room and the boys to themselves.

So, a quick note (and the only one, I promise) to inform you of this fic and it's future. I'm writing this mostly because I'm having real difficulty restarting After Troy (apologies to those readers!) and I have read every Galahad/Gawain/Tristan/Lancelot and some Arthur fanfics that exist on and most of the others (obsessive much) and I decided to have my say. It starts as Tristan/Lancelot, will meld into Gawain/Tristan, Lancelot/Arthur and eventually to Galahad/Gawain, Lancelot/Arthur, and Tristan doing whatever and whoever he so chooses. And it is somewhat Tristan-centric throughout. So, pray tell, what did you think of the beginning?


	2. Satisfaction

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 2: Sneaky and Satisfied

Halfway down the hall, Tristan turned aside into the chamber he shared with Lancelot, looking through his herbs to see which ones Percival had decided to use for fever. Percival was the best healer of all of them and Tristan constantly strove to discover his secrets. He had already elicited a promise from Percival that the knowledge was committed to paper and it would go to Tristan when Percival died.

Tristan wandered to the side of his small bed and began replacing the items in the drawer and on the shelf. He then heard the door close and swung around, fully aware that he had not nudged it closed, and painfully aware of the bolt sliding in place to lock the door. He saw Lancelot grinning wickedly at him and instantly knew he was in trouble.

"What use, indeed?" Lancelot replied to Tristan's earlier question. "When I have you."

"You only have me because you need to fill the time before you get Arthur." Tristan teased, pretending to be indifferent to Lancelot's predatory stare, even as the other man wandered over and wrapped his strong arms around Tristan's shoulders.

"I have you," Lancelot corrected, his hot breath on Tristan's neck, "because I want you. And I always get," he kissed the side of Tristan's neck, "what I want."

The remaining bags of herbs in Tristan's arms dropped to the ground as he leant on the shelf for support. By the gods, Lancelot's hands were talented! He leaned his head back and allowed Lancelot the access he wished.

Soon enough Lancelot had manoeuvred them to the bed and somehow disposed of all their clothing. Tristan fell back, hands clasped firmly on Lancelot's waist, and pulled the other knight with him. Lancelot grinned as he placed kisses over every bit of Tristan's flesh that he could reach.

"I hope…" Tristan said between gasps of breath. "I hope Arthur appreciates this treatment as much as I have." He let out a sound between a gasp and a laugh as Lancelot bit down on his shoulder.

"Not filling the time." Lancelot reiterated with a growl. "I want you, I have you."

"You cannot always have what you want." Tristan said, looking into Lancelot's eyes.

"Not always, perhaps." Lancelot conceded. "But tonight I shall."

Later the two emerged, having bathed and clothed themselves after their 'exertion'. Lancelot had insisted on washing Tristan's scruffy hair for the first time in what seemed like a very long time. He had taken out the leather strapping that held most of it to a single tail down his back. That which came loose each day generally stayed loose for several days until he deigned to retie his hair.

He felt strange with it all hanging loose now, and wet. It smelled fresh, though, and he somewhat enjoyed the herby scents that Lancelot had assailed him with. Though he would never admit that to the cocky man who walked beside him now, a subtle spring in his step.

They wandered down the hall and Tristan hung back as Lancelot boisterously greeted Bors and Dagonet. They continued along, loud talk filling the hallway. They turned when they reached the larger room of the five new boys and they were silent again. When they entered they found the four young lads seated about one of the fires, dressed in their new clothing and speaking quietly.

When they entered Lancelot was almost immediately accosted by the young Gareth. He looked up earnestly at the older man and seemed to bounce on his feet with a need to say something.

Lancelot looked enquiringly at the young boy.

"Thank you." The young boy all but shouted.

"I.. uh." Lancelot paused, a tad confused.

"I'm Gareth. Gawain and Gaheris are my older brothers." The boy told him with an eager look.

"Lancelot." Lancelot replied with a smile having regained his cool.

"Are you to take us to find food?" Gareth asked. The ten-year-old child was obviously fascinated by this older knight, having already chosen to look up to him as the idol all young children have.

"No, we shall wait for Kay to return." Lancelot said. "But why don't you introduce us all to each other while we wait."

The boy furrowed his brow for a moment and then took Lancelot's sleeve and dragged him over to the fireside. The others followed them and all eight of them were soon seated beside the warm fire.

Gareth sat down between Gawain and Lancelot, looking to each for approval. Gaheris sat on the other side of Gawain, closest to the fire and apparently feeling slightly odd suddenly having older men around. Tristan sat himself beside Lancelot, though technically he was not included in the circle. He sat himself back so that the firelight was not in his eyes and he could survey the group at ease. Galahad was, in a way, on his other side and he glared around at the new arrivals as if they might suddenly attack, except for Tristan whom he avoided looking at altogether. Then sat Dagonet with his legs crossed and his back straight and finally Bors who plonked himself down and leaned his back to the wall by the fire.

All was silent for a minute as they avoided each other's eyes and occasionally stole a glance at someone. Bors seemed the only one not to note the tension. He grinned and leaned back on the wall, completely relaxed as he scratched an itch that had been plaguing him for some time.

"Well, then. Welcome to Hadrian's wall." He said with a cheery smile once he disposed of the evil itch. "I'm Bors, and like to be the one that keeps you lot alive."

"If you don't kill him first." Lancelot said with a smile.

"And this here is Dagonet." Bors went on as if he hadn't heard Lancelot at all. "And the mysterious looking one that fancies himself some kind of elite is Tristan."

"Which one of those men earlier is to be our commander?" Gawain asked, looking about expectantly.

Lancelot laughed. "None of them. Though in their presence it is best to treat Bedivere as the commander. He is the one who's missing a hand."

"Missing a hand!" Galahad exclaimed. "I didn't notice. Which one was he, then, other than the one-handed?"

"The one who demanded your names." Dagonet said simply.

"And why should we treat him as our commander if he is not?" Galahad asked.

"Because he oversees the training of all the young Sarmatians." Dagonet replied. The knights nodded to this.

"And how long have you all been here?" Gaheris asked.

"A few months now." Bors told him. "We were in the first lot of villages they visited."

"Were there only four of you?" Gawain asked.

"No." Dagonet said solemnly. "Like you, there were more of us, but they have died or disappeared for some reason or another."

"There used to be more knights, but their numbers drop every year." Lancelot said. "You shall understand when you see the table."

"The table?" Gareth looked at his new-found hero questioningly.

"The round table." Lancelot nodded. "And that you shall see when Arthur returns."

"Who is Arthur?" Gaheris frowned.

"He is your commander." This time it was Kay speaking from the doorway. "And he returns four days hence so we shall have to get you well trained before then."

"This is Kay." Lancelot told the boys, mostly directing his comment to young Gareth. Lancelot felt flattered by Gareth's immediate respect for him, and had already warmed to the lad.

"How is Mordred?" Galahad asked with apprehension apparent in his voice. All the boys and young men in the room turned to hear Kay's reply.

Kay sighed and looked about. "He is less feverish, but he sleeps now." He shrugged his shoulders. "The journey has taken a hard toll on him, but a few days rest and he should be fine. But, come now. You must all eat before we retire for the night." And with that he turned and walked out of the room, not waiting for them to follow.

The group followed him out of the building and into a kitchen that worked near constantly to provide food for the officers on watch as well as the large group of men protecting the fort. Here the boys were given a plate on which to pile their helpings of meat, bread, cheese and fruit, and each took a mug of ale out into the courtyard unofficially reserved for the Sarmatians.

They sat around a long table and were soon joined by the other knights, except Percival who kept a vigil over Mordred. After not long, young women made their way toward the table to take a seat.

Lancelot perked immediately and pulled one young lass to sit upon his lap. She giggled and pretended to evade his capture but before long she was flirting outrageously with the handsome young knight. They did not even exchange names in all their conversation.

The younger boys watched this behaviour with apparent amusement. Even Tristan had to chuckle at the way the girl attempted to hold Lancelot's attention like so many other young women in the months they had been there and, indeed, the few years they had known each other in Sarmatia.

One young girl watched Dagonet with an interest that was not recognised and another girl of seventeen believed Tristan oblivious to her motions. He was, actually, perfectly aware of the way she shifted her body to aim her bosom toward him but, plainly, he was not interested.

Bors smiled when he saw Vanora, a woman of barely eighteen, make her way to his side. She worked in the kitchens and, when the knights were present, it was she that served them their drinks until the wee hours of the morning when she would be literally carried out by Bors.

Vanora smiled at him as she approached and leaped into his lap as soon as she was able. While all the men laughed at Bors' obvious attention it was the loving flicker in his eyes that held Vanora to him.

They had met originally in a village on the coast, the first village Bors visited on British soil. He had been devastated that they must leave, having only known Vanora for two days. None of them were aware, at that time, of a shadow that followed them each day just out of sight until she emerged just as they reached Hadrian's Wall. While the pretty young redhead was constantly eyed off by the other men at the fortress it was Bors she bedded, and only ever him.

Gaheris sat looking about the table, somewhat bewildered by the open way in which these girls flaunted their interest. He was not allowed to ponder this long before he, too, was joined at the table by a girl of roughly his years. She smiled at his shock and planted a tantalising kiss on his neck below the ear before sitting forward and taking up his drink for a sip.

"He's fast moving, this one!" Bors laughed, and then raised his drink in a salute to the young man.

Later, when the crowd had depleted and Gaheris had politely excused himself from the young woman, the boys escaped to their beds. Shortly thereafter Tristan had to roll his eyes at Lancelot, who raised an eyebrow at him suggestively as he was led away by the young woman of no name. He could not deny a pang of envy as he watched Lancelot depart, though he could not determine whether it was envy of the woman in bedding Lancelot, or Lancelot in bedding women.

Tristan drank off the last of his drink and moved silently around in the shadows to return to his room without confrontation. Along the way he spied Galahad sneaking about. He watched the boy in silence for a moment before deciding to follow. Just as he made to shadow the lad, however, his plan was complicated by the appearance of Gawain, with the very same intention.

Tristan paused and watched the boys for a moment before moving off to follow them both. Galahad's attempts at sneaking were abysmal. The dirt crunched heavily under his feet, though he could not have been particularly heavy. His 'shadowy corners' were not particularly shadowy and he didn't once look behind him to see if he was followed.

Gawain was better, but not by much. He at least seemed to remain hidden from Galahad, and he moved much more quietly. Unfortunately he, too, had poor choice in shadows and he was plainly visible much of the way.

Tristan shook his head and swore to himself to teach them both something of stealth next time he was in a position to. For the moment he trailed them on a path that seemed to be heading towards the stables. Galahad paused once and Gawain was nearly given away as he walked into a post because of his distraction.

It seemed that Galahad's intent was, indeed, the stables. He paused once he had the stables in his sights, but his next challenge was getting past the Roman guards stationed at the entrance. After looking about a bit he spotted a window shutter, left open for the cool breeze on the summer night, and made a dash for it. Fortunately for them all the guards were slightly drunk and chatting between themselves so they did not notice three figures slipping past and into the stable window.

As he dropped into the hay in an empty stall Tristan glanced quickly about for the boys. He spotted Galahad making his way to a stall near the door and quieting his own horse as he made to saddle her up.

Before Galahad could even lift the saddle off it's ledge, Gawain stepped out of the shadows by the stall and drew Galahad's attention with a deliberate crunch of straw. Galahad spun around with a look in his eyes that made Tristan willing to bet he would have taken on any full-grown Roman officer at that point. When he saw it was Gawain his fury died, but was replaced by fear and something akin to exasperation.

"Galahad." Gawain said wearily. "What are you doing?" He stepped closer to the stall and Galahad took a reflexive step back.

"I'm leaving." Galahad replied and, as if to reinforce the statement, he turned and made for another go at his saddle.

"No, Galahad." Gawain said, placing a hand on the younger boy's forearm and forcing him to lower the saddle. "If you leave now they'll kill you." He said quietly. "They nearly did last time."

"I cannot stay here!" Galahad said, a bit loud but it seemed to go unnoticed by those outside. He pushed Gawain's hand from his arm and tried to back further away from the other boy. Gawain took another step towards Galahad, coming between him and the saddle.

"Galahad." Gawain sighed.

"Come with me." Galahad offered. "We can escape together. We'll fight our way out of trouble, and hunt for food as we cross the country."

"And the sea?" Gawain asked. "How will you cross that? And yet the rest of the Roman Empire would still stand between you and Sarmatia." He looked sadly into Galahad's face. "Galahad, you can not do this. Some day we will return there, but not now. Now our only chance to live that long is to stay with the other knights and to complete our service. Then we shall return as free men, not as fugitives."

"I cannot stay here." Galahad repeated. This time Tristan saw how truly close to tears the young boy was. "I cannot stay here." Galahad's voice trailed off as he was engulfed in Gawain's arms. The older boy held tightly to the younger and they stood silently but for Galahad's muffled crying.

"You can stay here." Gawain said softly. "You can because you are strong, and I will be here with you." He swore.

Galahad sniffed once and wiped his eyes as he moved back from Gawain's chest. Gawain smiled at the young boy. He saw in Galahad a spirit that would not be truly broken. He had perhaps conceded to wait for a time but he would never be fully settled here, of that Gawain was certain.

"Let us just meet our commander first." Gawain offered. "If you do not like him then I'll personally see to your escape. We can swim the sea, if it comes to that."

Gawain smiled when he heard a soft laugh from the younger boy. At the same time Tristan heard the crunch of dirt outside the stable, just under the window through which they had come. He crouched low and focused on the sound, determining it to be two people, possibly drunk. His suspicions were confirmed when he heard a man's voice and a woman's giggling laughter. He turned back in time to see Gawain and Galahad walking back towards the window.

Tristan stood up and held a finger to his mouth for silence. Both boys were too shocked to need to be silenced further but they stopped and closed their mouths anyway. Soon they both heard the sound and the man was speaking Latin, so they deduced it was a Roman soldier. Realising this danger they immediately forgot the embarrassment of Tristan having been present and witnessing the attempted escape, and they both looked to him for help.

Tristan mused for just a moment, and looked about for other windows. The only other window opened out to the main courtyard inhabited by the Romans. That was not an option, given the irregular hours of sleep and passage of those on watch. Tristan, being a resourceful man, glanced up and saw a small gap in the rushes that thatched the roof of the stables. A further study of the stables uncovered a rope ladder.

"Wait here." Tristan told them, before running off to grab the ladder. With that over one arm he began to climb on anything he could find to get up to the hole in the roof. He used, first, the walls that separated the horses' stalls. He jumped from one of these to grab hold of a beam that crossed the structure. He pulled himself onto that and realised he was mere feet from the hole. Unfortunately it was lower than where he stood, and thus hard to get at. A study of the roof showed Tristan that he could, by gripping the roof beams, swing himself across to it and, using all the dextrous proficiency that only Tristan could possibly possess, he did just that.

He set the ladder down for a moment and rubbed his hands together. Readjusting the ladder over his arm he crouched down and jumped over to the first beam. He hung there a moment before swinging himself and launching over to the next beam. He heard the boys gasp and looked down to see them under his position, kicking hay to soften the potential fall, and staring up in awe.

Tristan breathed to calm himself and then finally made the last swing and found himself right by the hole. He swung his legs up through the gap and pulled the rest of his body through it. Making the hole wider, he lashed the rope ladder to the beams he had just clung to, and then dropped the rest of it down to the boys. Gawain encouraged Galahad up first, and stayed for a moment to kick the hay back into place.

At the top of the ladder Tristan hoisted Galahad up to sit beside him, precariously balanced on the edge of the stable roof. When Gawain got to the top Tristan moved aside and grabbed the boys arm to lift him the rest of the way. Tristan untied the ladder and let it fall back into an empty stall below. He fixed the roofing a little, so the hole was not so gapingly obvious.

"Follow me." He muttered, and he stood and walked quickly along the beam that took them to the back of the stables where they met with the wall of the fort. He turned back to see Galahad doubled over and using both hands and feet to walk along, and Gawain crouched low as he went so his balance could be more easily distributed. Both looked almost amusing and Tristan smiled to himself.

When they reached him Tristan turned and leapt off the building to land on a pile of wood that stacked high. It was only a few feet below, but his feet and legs punished him for the jump by instantly springing with pain. Nevertheless he turned and caught both boys as they dropped down from the roof. From the woodpile they all climbed layer by layer to the ground. Galahad made to walk off but Tristan grabbed his wrist first.

"Not that way." He warned. Then he turned and scuttled around the back of the Roman quarters. His path led them around the backs of several buildings until, eventually, they came to the Sarmatian building. He took them inside, past the rooms where the other knights dozed and led them up to their door.

As Galahad set his hand on the door Tristan nudged his shoulder with a slight smile.

"Next time you try to sneak about," Tristan said quietly, "see me first." He then turned and wandered back into his own chambers. He saw Lancelot dozing contentedly on his back, his hand splayed across his chest. Tristan was rather pleased to see no girl had come back with him, though only Sarmatians and Arthur were allowed in this building so he was not overly surprised.

Once disrobed and lying in bed, he heard a rustle of sheets. Again, the door was locked and Tristan sighed with a smile. Soon he felt his bed lower under the weight of his companion.

"I thought you would never return." Lancelot said sleepily as he nudged in beside Tristan.

"And I thought you had chosen a woman for the evening." Tristan smiled, wrapping his arms around the younger knight.

"I had." Lancelot confirmed, pushing deeper into the embrace and pushing his head up under Tristan's. "But she was terrible."

Tristan laughed and was somewhat relieved. He held Lancelot tight and they both fell asleep.

Tbc

A/N: And I promise, for all you Arthur/Lancelot fans, it will be so! Consider this filler.


	3. Battle

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 3: To Battle

Several weeks of training passed without incident. Each morning the boys would rise and meet Bedivere in the training square in the Sarmatian area. It was a huge, open area with a pebble-littered ground. It served the dual purpose of a practice court and the central point for the Sarmatians, as their quarters surrounded it on three sides, the fourth being blocked with a gate that was rarely closed.

While Bedivere was in charge of the training, they never actually saw him using his legendary skills. Some of the boys began to speculate that his technique and ability were perhaps failing him with his years. Thus it was mostly Kay and Lamorak who took their training. Percival often stepped in to help, but he was never quite able to grasp how one 'taught' skills. To him they came as naturally as walking, and he was nowhere near as patient with the young lads as the other two.

Tristan, with the return of Arthur and the addition of the new boys, had stepped back into training. His skills still surpassed the rest but he was quiet and patient when he needed to be, and was often given leeway to continue on while the others went over what they were doing.

Lancelot, ever the courteous knight, was sociable with all present, if just for a reason to speak to Arthur. At any given moment one could catch him standing near Arthur, talking to Arthur, or looking at Arthur from whatever distance. He seemed happiest when actually speaking with the commander, but none bar Tristan seemed to note this.

Mordred had recovered reasonably well, but he was still quite obviously not well. At night he would retire to his bed early, often shaking from the evening coolness. He would sit as close to any fire as he could, without burning himself, and he was obviously not going as well as the others.

During those weeks Tristan watched Galahad and Gawain particularly closely, but with the subtlety of a scout, so nobody knew. He noted Gawain's somewhat dark passion for the Art of Death. In the first few days of training it became obvious that he was not comfortable with the sword. Bedivere quickly changed the boy to working with an axe, a weapon to which he took immediately. Bedivere seemed to still be musing that it was not quite right, but he hadn't found anything else just yet.

Galahad was reasonably quiet over those first weeks. He would answer questions, and he did not seem overly reticent but he never seemed to feel at home. They put it down to his not being used to the change yet. He still attached himself to Gawain and the older boy seemed quite pleased with this. Then, after only those short few weeks of training, all hell seemed to break loose.

One afternoon, early spring by now, shouts broke out from the outer gate, the north end of the station. Bedivere halted the boys' practice by lifting his good hand, and tipped his head to hear better. A huge bell began to suddenly ring and this spurred him into action.

"Attack on the Wall." He said quickly. He turned a worried stare to the young boys. He knew they were not ready, but he also knew they were all sworn to defend the Romans, or face Roman punishment. With a sigh he nodded to Kay who was running through the exercises with the older boys, including Arthur.

"Where to?" Kay questioned, knowing what Bedivere was suggesting.

"Not too close to the wall, but close enough that it looks as though they might be defending it." Bedivere answered. He turned to Lamorak, who had been teaching the younger boys. "And slightly behind them." He instructed. "Then I need you both, and you Percival, to meet me at the gate. We shall be needed soon, I'm sure."

The men quickly nodded to the boys and then dashed off, the young men trailing quickly behind. As an afterthought, Tristan grabbed a bow and a quiver of arrows and chased after the group. Percival saw this and promptly followed with several more of each.

The group ran through their quarters, suiting up as much as possible, as fast as possible. Leather jerkins were thrown on over chain mail shirts, swords and shields were taken, and each man wore the dragon symbol somewhere on his form. Arthur's knights would be seen from a distance as the fearsome knights not in roman gear, a force not to be reckoned with. If an enemy got close

When they finally reached the gate they saw found the Romans lined up in formation, ready to march. Shouts rang out in the din, men dashed to and from position, and villagers ran in the opposite direction, fleeing to safety. Bedivere and Percival took Arthur to report to the Roman officer in charge, while Lamorak and Kay positioned the young knights where they were likely to be safest. Arthur and the other two soon returned, having gained an understanding of their position. They all took up position.

"There aren't many." Arthur told his men, his voice pitched so that only they would hear it. From their respective positions all thirteen of them leaned in to hear their commander speak. "The roman scouts have counted ten score Woads approaching."

"The Roman scouts?" Lancelot questioned with some disbelief. "And when, in their tracking, did they decide to inform us of the situation?"

Somewhat reluctantly, Arthur answered: "They told those in charge three days ago."

"Three days!" Bors growled. "Three bloody days and we get the order today!" He shook his head, glancing to catch an agreeing nod from Dagonet.

Galahad turned to Gawain and Tristan saw their apprehensive stares. He noted an understanding between them, something akin to brothers, but slightly askew from that concept. Tristan was still staring at the two of them when they broke their gaze, and Gawain's swung to Tristan. Again, there eyes met.

The look he received from the young boy was nigh unreadable. Tristan ducked his head quickly and turned away before Gawain could see the colour that flushed his cheeks. Tristan quickly focused on the most unattractive thing he could find to keep his mind off Gawain's fresh young face. The back of Bors' head proved to be a convenient focus point.

A voice suddenly rose up near the Knights. Tristan recognised it as Ronus', the man who had brought the youngest Knights to Hadrian's Wall.

"Bedivere." He called. "Shouldn't you get those boys to the front of the line?" The comment, while innocent alone, had a tone that implied insult.

Evidently, however, Ronus had not seen Arthur amongst the group, if he was even aware that the young man had returned from Rome. For, as soon as Arthur stepped clearly into his line of sight, a horrified look passed over Ronus' face.

"Ronus." Arthur said. His voice was not loud, but all talk amongst those within earshot died down, and the power in Arthur's voice resonated through the crowd. "That is my second-in-command whom you address. And you speak of my Knights. Do you assume authority over my men?"

"No, Artorius." Ronus stammered. "I meant nothing… uh, assumed nothing."

"Good." Arthur nodded. "Then return to your post."

No sooner had Arthur finished, however, than another voice rose up.

"Castus." Said Maenus. He was the only person at Badon Hill in a position of authority over Arthur, and used it with some degree of pleasure.

"Maenus." Arthur nodded his head.

"Artorius, you have to move your men to the head of the group, and I want you on horseback." Maenus said with a smile in his voice.

"Maenus, they are not ready to be in the front line, and I do not want Mordred to fight, not today." Arthur said. "I will offer four of my men to the front line, and four to the main section, but the newly arrived Sarmatians must remain at the rear of the company."

"No, all of them." Maenus said. "Including Mordred." There was an intensity in his eyes that suggested he was enjoying this power. "Horus, get these men their horses. All of them." He yelled at a young page running about between the soldiers. Everyone watched the boy run off until he had disappeared into the stables.

"Eight of my men up front, the other four remain at the rear." Arthur implored after a moment. "Mordred is not ready for battle."

"All of them up the front." Maenus said, his voice crisp with an order. Another pause. "Unless you wish to defy Rome."

"I am loyal to Rome, you know this." Arthur glared, speaking through gritted teeth. "But those boys aren't ready for the front line. Not yet."

"Well, they had best learn quickly." Maenus grinned sickly. Other Romans observing this were amused also. Tristan had a feeling Maenus was playing this up for his audience. "Orders of Rome, Artorius. Your men all report to the front line immediately." He paused with a grin. "Including Mordred."

As Maenus finished Horus approached with several other boys, all with horses in tow. Arthur growled somewhere in his throat and Lancelot watched him with a keen concern. The men all mounted the horses, an action that was second nature to the born and bred Sarmatians. Arthur brought his horse about to confer with his men.

"Stay close to me, watch out for each other." He said. "And above all, remember this. Running from an enemy more powerful than you is not a sign of weakness, but a sign of intelligence. I do not want anyone killed out there."

The men and the young boys nodded in acceptance.

Tristan sat at the edge of their group as they paced their horses to the front of the lines. Some of the Romans laughed, while others looked on with pity at the young boys that rode upon these mighty steeds. Looking about, Tristan sighed to himself.

Gawain and Gaheris sat steady upon their mounts, staring straight ahead with occasional concerned glances about the group. Galahad masked his fear with a passionate fury that fixed itself on his face and in his deep, heavy breath. Still, the lad was only ten years old, and small even for his age. Gareth sat beside Lancelot, fear more apparent on his face. He gripped his reigns and moved about in his saddle. He would glance occasionally at Lancelot's steely expression and try to mimic it, eventually subsiding back into a fretful glancing about.

Lancelot noted the young boys behaviour and extended an arm to grip Gareth's shoulder.

"Stay with me." Lancelot told him. Gareth nodded a few times before meeting Lancelot's eyes again. He saw concern there, but also a trust. Lancelot trusted him to stay safe, and stay with Lancelot. Therefore he would.

Gawain turned to Gaheris, his face suddenly stricken with uncertainty.

"Gaheris, I don't know if we're ready for this." Gawain pleaded. His comments went unheard to most, but Tristan was listening intently.

"Each man will meet his fate." Gaheris said, still staring at the gate. After a pause he turned to Gawain. "At least, that's what I was told." He said with a smile.

"That's not very helpful." Gawain grumbled, searching his older brother for support in this.

"No, it's not." Gaheris conceded, a sad smile on his face. "I have always believed we make our own fate. Nothing controls us other than choices others make, and those that we make."

"Then you believe that we made this fate? That we have chosen to-"

"No." Gaheris silenced Gawain with a look. "I believe that other's choices have brought us to this point, and it is now up to us."

"Stay with me, brother." Gawain implored.

"You and I will be fine." Gaheris said. A slight jerk of his head brought the attentions of both Gawain and Tristan to the face of another.

Mordred sat in his saddle, taking shallow breaths and staring down at the mud. His face was sweaty already, from fever and fear. He twisted one hand on the reigns, and the other gripped the hilt of his sheathed short sword.

"If your safety is assured, it falls to you to defend the weak." Gaheris said quietly. "Defend those who are unable to defend themselves, but do not do it at your own expense."

Both Tristan and Gawain nodded to this. Then the gates opened wide to reveal the grassy plain. At the other end, still half in the trees, the Woads roared with ferocity.

It was a sight that would make a grown man fall to his knees, had he not seen it before.

The Woads had no order, no rank nor discipline. They stood as one huge force, arms and weapons raised to the heavens, mouths open and screaming in their native tongue. Some wore armour of leather strapping, some wore cloth only to keep themselves warm and a significant portion of them wore nothing but what was necessary to keep them in place.

All around them the Knights could see Romans trembling. It had been several months since the last woad attack, well before the younger boys had arrived. Arthur had been in battle many times, and the older four had been a part of it also. This was the first time, however, that the younger boys had faced an enemy in bloody combat.

Arthur looked over his Knights. He knew full well that the four who had served his father were more than capable of this battle. They had fought many times more than Arthur had, and their survival was tribute to their skill.

As for the other four, Arthur was positive in his attitude about them. Bors had fought neighbouring peoples when he was in Sarmatia, living on the border of the next land. Dagonet had been there also, fighting by Bors' side since they were young. Tristan, Arthur knew, was merciless in his killing, and quite apt to doing just that. His skill rivalled that of the older Knights, and Arthur had very little fear for Tristan's life so long as he didn't overestimate himself. And as for Lancelot, Arthur could not have more faith in anything bar his God.

When Lancelot had first arrived at Badon hill, Arthur had been there to greet them. They had spent several weeks training and a bond had formed between them almost instantly. When Arthur had returned to Rome he had found that there was something that he truly missed in leaving Britain.

Then Arthur looked over the younger Knights, and his fear of this battle grew immensely.

Gawain and Gaheris he had faith in. They were more than capable swordsmen, and Gawain had taken to the axe beautifully. Mordred, he feared, had not had anywhere near enough training and he was still weakened from his illness. Arthur sighed, knowing full well that Mordred should not be in the battle. Arthur would still try to send him back, he decided, at the first sign of trouble.

As far as he was concerned, Galahad and Gareth were just plainly too young to be involved in war, either. It was true that Arthur had been fighting since their age, but it always seems more difficult to put another in the dangers you have faced.

"Artorius, we move." Called a captain who stood with his infantry beside the Knights. Arthur nodded and put his horse into a walk, the other men following the lead.

They moved out and started down the path, the slow pace seeming ridiculously underplayed in the face of what was to come. Lancelot, it seemed, noted this.

"Arthur, are we to walk our horses into battle?" He said with a cock of the head.

"We stay close to the Romans, or we will be destroyed before they reach the Woads." Arthur said simply.

"I do not thing the Romans agree with your logic." Gawain said, peering behind them. The others followed his gaze and saw, with some trepidation the way the Romans glared, and also the one boy who road out towards them, unarmed. A messenger.

As he neared he called out to Arthur, his young voice pitched higher than all other sounds and clear over the still day.

"Artorius, you've orders to ride ahead." The boy called.

"Who sends them?" Arthur asked, more quietly as the boy drew closer.

"Maenus does." The boy said, a nod of his head showing the respect he held for Arthur.

"And what is your name?" Arthur asked.

"Jols, sir." He replied with some confusion at being asked this as they rode into battle.

"Jols." Arthur repeated. "Tell Maenus that Artorius has accepted enough orders from him today, and that I plan to ride at whatever pace I choose."

Jols smiled a little, nervous at replying to the commander. "He may not be pleased…"

"If he argues, simply tell him that I plan to keep my men alive. If he wishes our service at Badon hill then he will respect my decision." Arthur grinned at the young boy.

"Yes sir." Jols replied. "And good luck."

Arthur nodded and Jols turned the messenger horse about and headed back to the gate. Arthur glanced back at the Romans, seeing that they were keeping pace with the horses, and then looked about at his men. They were getting closer and closer to the Woads and the sounds were growing steadily louder.

"Men?" He queried.

"Let's ride." Bedivere said. The rest of the men nodded and Arthur looked forward with one final deep breath.

"Arthur," a small voice spoke up before they could take off. Arthur turned to see Gareth peering up at him, confusion all over his face. "Will you give no war cry?" When Arthur only looked at him somewhat stunned and confused, Gareth elaborated. "The Sarmatians have a war cry, if you think it acceptable…" Gareth looked about at the older men. Percival, Kay and Lamorak smiled nostalgically and Bedivere had a look of pride on his face. The rest of them nodded to Gareth and turned to await Arthur's response.

"Very well. The cry is yours." Arthur nodded to them all.

"The Woads shall know it is Sarmatians who ride today, and not Romans." Galahad said quietly.

All turned their faces to the Woads, resolution in their minds. At last a small voice with all the strength he could muster, leapt up above it all, crying 'Roars' to the wind.

It was joined by another and another and at last they all yelled together and spurred their horses to a gallop, charging at where the Woads were partially stunned at the display. The Sarmatians rode into battle.


	4. Mordred

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 4: Mordred

The battle that ensued was bloody, to say the very least. Arthur and his men rode forth and, once recovered from their initial shock at a sound they would later come to associate with imminent death, the Woads fought back hard.

Tristan and Bors quickly formed the wings of a formation they had trained for. The dragon flew towards the Woads with fury and deftly picked off all stragglers on the outer edges. Using their horses in a manner the Woads and Romans were unfamiliar with, the Sarmatians went amongst their supposed enemies and used their freed hands to slice at any flesh they could reach.

Galahad had anticipated this moment, the moment when his blade would take life. The moment he would take life. It never seemed the same, though, in training. From the tales of other men, and his own imagination, he had expected bloodcurdling cries, and a fierce hand-to-hand fight before a man's life fell before him.

It was not like that.

A parry and a thrust of his sword and the man fell. Galahad stared for a moment, astounded by the ease of it but horrified just the same. It was only when Tristan's arm landed on his own that he moved. A brief look made him understand the importance of this time and he rode on.

Gareth was much the same in his reaction, but his man did not fall with such swiftness. He fought and fought, unfairly matched against a man of easily twice his age, and tall enough to be a challenge to the mounted boy. Eventually his sword managed a slash across the other man's throat, and blood spilled forth, shooting at Gareth's face from the opened arteries. Gareth darted backwards and stared in disgust. It was only when Lancelot stopped a blow from being dealt to Gareth's head that Gareth began to move again.

Bors and Dagonet fought well, as was to be expected. Their style was what some of the Roman's would have expected in a tavern brawl, not on the battlefield. Of course, death had never been romanticized as pretty and honourable in Sarmatia.

Gaheris and Gawain fought side by side, always with their horses nearby. The younger had an eye constantly on his brothers and Galahad, while Gaheris' gaze seemed to assess Mordred as often as not. Their fighting technique was remarkably similar, given Gawain's use of an axe and Gaheris a sword. They seemed not to notice the blood of their enemies. It was simpler to them, kill or be killed. There were no pretences to taking life.

Arthur turned about and about, killing Woads as he surveyed his men. The Romans were beginning their run now, but the Woads were closing in. Soon it would be the Sarmatians and Arthur in a circle of blue warriors; surrounded by death.

Bedivere, Percival, Kay and Lamorak took as many of the tougher fights as they could, but everyone was getting more and more hampered in their efforts to stay together and fight their way out at the same time. Worry took Arthur's heart as he saw Mordred desperately swinging a blade he had never before used. Then the worry turned to anger; the boy should not have been there in the first place, and Arthur would be certain that Mordred would never be placed in that position again.

He heard a shout as the Roman's broke through to the Sarmatian position. Nodded a brief greeting to a young captain, and then turned to his men.

"Mordred." He called. Mordred turned, hideously unaware of the battle that threatened him at all times. "Ride back, immediately."

The young man nodded but paused. He was thankful of the offer, but also aware that his commander considered him unable to fight. If he had taken that chance straight away he may have lived.

Mordred swung his horse around, disregarding the Woads that pushed in. He spurred his horse forward, but he was blocked. He slashed at those in his way but they were too many. His hopeless efforts drew the attention of both Woad and Knight. Lamorak and Bedivere pushed their way through the sea of blue men, desperate to reach Mordred. The Woads forced their way between the Knights and their object of focus, throwing themselves at both in an effort to bring down what they could.

Mordred began sweating and puffing from the effort, and his wild distress made him lose control of his horse for a moment, the one moment that pulled him further away from the knights.

The Woad numbers were depleting, but they seemed concentrated between these two parties now, desperate to claim more than Romans that day. The knights were all pressing towards Mordred, backed by Romans as they went. Each pushed his horse as hard as he could, killing where it was possible.

"To me, Mordred!" Arthur called desperately. "To me!"

The young man drove his horse straight through the Woad crowd. Momentarily he lost his grip on his sword and he overbalanced to catch it, scrabbling for the reigns as he did so.

The Knights watched in horror as Mordred was gripped by the forearm and dragged to the ground, eyes wild and desperate as he fell. They could only wince as they heard one last fraught, choked cry before a mighty thud and the most sickening crunch any of them had ever heard.

Arthur visibly started in his saddle, and Gaheris yelled in fury as he cut away at everything blue in sight. Lamorak and Kay exchanged glances and began blocking the youngest boys from the Woads, pressing them back to the Roman defence. Percival took a breath and glared at the Woads who surrounded him, daring them to fight him.

Gawain was dragged away from his fuming brother by a push of the masses, but Bedivere seemed able to force his way through to the older boy. He slashed at a few more Woads and reached out to Gaheris. Gaheris swung an angry glare at Bedivere, and it only lessened slightly when he saw who had touched him. Then it swung back to the Woads and his blade pushed through one man's skull, then out and across another man's throat.

The Woads were spread now, their numbers having diminished severely. A few still crowded around where Mordred had fallen, seemingly defending their prize. Gaheris seemed determined to reach them, and they seemed just as determined to stand their ground.

At last there was enough room for Gaheris to dismount, and he grabbed his shield as he did so. Turning to the Woads he dealt them with a stare that could have withered weaker men. Instead they stepped aside, parting to allow Gaheris his chance to face the true enemy.

A man stood up from where he had been looting Mordred's body. Without having seen the death, though, there would have been no telling the young man's face, for it was crushed well into his scull, and near featureless once combined with the profuse amount of bleeding from the brain. The boy had watched the blow fall.

The apparent killer of Mordred stood and faced down his would-be opponent. Gaheris stood his ground but a ripple of fear tainted his face. The man before him was huge, as tall as Kay and as broad, easily, as Lamorak. There was something in his face, however, that undermined all of this. There was a lack of comprehension beyond death dealing that suggested that this man lacked intelligence.

Of little comfort was that to Gaheris.

"Turn around, boy." Bedivere whispered. "They will not fairly challenge you, they merely wait for an opportunity to strike."

The man called something in Gaelic and those around him laughed. He had obviously made jest of Mordred's death, as the hefted a huge war hammer towards the dead boy's body. Gaheris stepped forward. The weapon was coated in blood, and it was the same size as the thing that had apparently crushed Mordred's skull. The sickening crunch became clear now. Gaheris felt ill.

Then the man charged.

Gaheris had barely enough time to duck out of the way of the huge wooden hammer before it did a similar job to his own skull as it had to Mordred's. He swung his sword towards the man, but his reach was not enough. He knew this was dangerous, because it meant he had to get closer.

He ducked in as far as he dared, and sent the blade forth again. This time it nearly scraped but the man pulled back again. Gaheris was mildly aware of Bedivere standing behind him, perched with his one good hand on the hilt of his sword.

Several more times Gaheris jumped in and pulled back, narrowly missing the war hammer just as many times. He could see the other Woads edging in, but they made no show of wishing to end this display.

Soon he felt himself getting tired. His limbs began to weaken and fail. He was short of breath and shorter, yet, of time. The war hammer was coming down from above once more, aimed straight at his skull.

Now Gaheris saw his opportunity.

The huge beast of a man had brought both powerful arms up to grip the hammer, and it occupied all his strength and concentration to do so. Gaheris stepped forward under the man's arms and his sword plunged into the other man's gut even as the huge hammer hit soil where Gaheris had previously stood.

The look of shock on the other man's face was nearly equal to Gaheris' that he had succeeded. He pulled the sword back as quickly as he could, tripping over the hammer as he backed away. He landed on his back, still staring at the man who now gripped his stomach in a futile effort to hold his blood and life in through the gaping hole.

The Woads paused, deathly silent, and then attacked with a ferocity that they had kept pent while they watched. Now the six of them that remained leapt forward with all weapons aimed at Gaheris.

A moment before Gaheris was aware of it, Bedivere had leapt over the boy, sword raised and ready. He landed between Gaheris and the now prone body of the other warrior. The failing sunlight reflected off his sword, which gleamed with the freshly spilled blood of his fallen enemies.

He swung twice, throwing back three of his opponents. Another slash and one of them was dead. With his stump wrist he dealt blows that a fist would struggle to compete with. His sword then danced in and eliminated life wherever it fell. A second person fell, then a third and now the first three had returned to challenge again.

Bedivere raised his sword in a challenging salute and danced forward, his blade killing two of the warriors in one movement. The last looked at the sword, then the man, and then the fallen, and made a foolish decision to try his luck once more. His death was not so swift. His throat was cut only part way, and his gut opened for the world. He lay writhing on the grass even as Bedivere sheathed his sword and turned back to Gaheris.

"Are you alright?" He asked and offered the boy a hand.

Gaheris could not answer but stared as he took the man's hand and pulled himself up. He looked dumfounded and the most he could manage was to pull his eyes away so as to not seem rude. The man was the finest warrior he had ever seen, and he had but one hand. He felt that hand on his shoulder and looked up to meet the man's eyes.

"Are you alright?" Bedivere repeated.

"Six men." Gaheris muttered, staring as the last of them finally gave up his struggle. It was all he could manage to get out a few words. "And Mordred."

They both made the foolish mistake of glancing over at the boy's body. Gaheris felt instantly ill again and turned away, taking a few deep breaths as he did. Bedivere steeled himself, as only a tried and true warrior could, and stepped over to where Mordred lay. Bedivere took Mordred's horse and steadied her. The tall mare had not wandered far from her owner, remembering her duty well.

After pulling off the saddle and dumping it on the ground Bedivere took the saddle-blanket and wrapped the boy's body in it, lifting it and placing it on the horse's back once more. He took the lead rope in one hand and gripped Gaheris' shoulder in the other, leading them both back to the rest of the knights.

Once they were close Lamorak finally released Gawain, whom he had been holding back from the fight, and the boy took off like an arrow. Gawain ran to his brother and gripped him by both shoulders staring wildly and intently into his eyes. He recognized the plea that was in Gaheris' eyes: no words.

Gawain roughly embraced his brother, only parting when Gareth came and began fretting about them both. The young boy took Gaheris' hand and stared worriedly up into his brother's eyes. He had tears in his own, though he made an effort to hide them. Gaheris half-smiled, and bent down to hug the young lad.

"I was so scared." Gareth whispered, fearful and astounded. "He was huge."

"I'm alright." Gaheris promised. "Let's go back, now."


	5. Aftermath

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 5: Aftermath

The Knights sat around the tables in the courtyard-come-tavern, in thoroughly drunken silence. Every now and again Vanora would bring a jug full of ale and refill their mugs. Each time she passed, Bors would wrap her in a hug for a moment before releasing her back to her duties.

Lancelot sat quietly near the head of the table, his usual jesting stolen by the sullen mood. Beside him Gareth sat with his mouth pressed firmly closed and a hand gripping Gaheris' beside him. Gawain sat across from them, gripping his drink tightly and staring down into the ochre fluid. His eyes would occasionally flit over to Galahad who sat deep in frustrated contemplation beside him.

Galahad was oblivious to the world around him, however, and did not once catch Gawain's gaze. He had long ago forgotten about his drink and was, at that moment, praying that he could wake up in his bed in Sarmatia. If he did that, he supposed, then Mordred would still be alive, and none of them would have to stay here with the Romans and all would be well. If only he could just awaken from this dreadful dream.

Tristan leant against the kitchen's outer wall, one knee crooked so his foot rested on the cool bricks. An apple core sat in one palm, his fingers gripping a bread crust while his other hand tore off piece by piece and he ate slowly in his typical silent deliberation. He was unnerved, though, as he had grown used to doing his thinking with noise surrounding him and tonight's silence was haunting. Even the few Romans sharing the space were quiet that night.

The older Knights had disappeared earlier with Arthur to arrange for Mordred's burial the following day. They reappeared, now, with Arthur slowly trailing them. He seemed lost in his thoughts and his face bore too much pressure for one of his age. Lancelot privately thought it was a crying shame that such a man was so weighted that his face already showed lines.

Arthur and the others sat down amongst the younger men, exchanging glances and remaining silent in wait of their drinks. Vanora offered them a quick half-smile when she brought them mugs and drink. She left two pitchers full and made a mental note to return with more.

Arthur held his drink for a moment before raising it in the air. Still nobody spoke, and the toast was a silent one, as no one needed to be told whom they toasted. Finally Arthur took it upon himself to speak.

"You fought well, today." He said quietly, though in that profound silence it seemed far too loud. "All of you." The men nodded their assent and downed more drink.

It was at that moment that Maenus made his entry with a dozen or so Romans in tow. He held his head aloft, chatting comfortably. When the drinks came he held his up high above his head. His eyes darted once to Arthur before his words came, and his smile was wide across his face.

"To a Roman victory." He said loudly, and a few of the Romans glanced nervously at the Sarmatian table, well aware of the many eyes upon them.

"To victory." Some of them chorused, while the others managed the whole toast. The Sarmatians watched angrily as those high in the ranks sat smugly and downed their drinks, calling merrily for more.

"It was a fine day, for one and for all." Maenus said with a grin. "Was it not, Artorius?"

Arthur breathed deeply through his nose once in and out before turning his body to face Maenus. Maenus, who had been drinking for much of the night, made the mistake of continuing.

"All the Woads slaughtered." He said, counting off his fingers. "Minimal and," he paused with a pointed look at the knights, "inconsequential losses."

Bors reacted first, slamming his mug down and jumping to his feet, his glare fierce. Dagonet, still seated beside Bors, lowered his drink and calmly drew a dagger, stabbing it into the table.

"Inconsequential?" Lancelot questioned, tilting his head with a dangerous look in his eyes.

"We only lost sixteen Romans today." Maenus said with a smile. "And one Knight."

"A loss of seventeen men could have meant your cavalry." Percival noted.

"But instead we only lost one of the horsemen and he wasn't trained anyway." Maenus laughed.

"You sent him out there!" Arthur roared suddenly, leaping to his feet. "It was your order that he fight!"

Maenus suddenly appeared very angry. "We needed every man out there."

"He was not ready to fight!" Arthur yelled. "You ordered him to fight when he was not ready, even after I pleaded with you. You killed my man."

"Boy," Bors growled, "not even a man. You sent an untrained boy to his death. It should have been you to die on that field."

Maenus' angry and nervous expression was covered by bravado. "Do you threaten me? I hope that you do not threaten me, I who am your superior officer."

"If you do not wish threats," Lancelot said, raising his eyebrows suggestively, "then do not invite them." He stood and placed his hand firmly and obviously on the hilt of his sword.

Dagonet, Gaheris, Gawain, Gareth, Galahad and Tristan soon joined Lancelot, each with a weapon clearly in view. Percival swung his feet around, ready to leap if need be. Kay and Lamorak stepped forward to flank Arthur and Bedivere took a carefully measured sip of his drink, peering at Maenus over the rim.

"Sir," one of the men said beside Maenus. "Sir, we should leave."

Maenus glared once more at the Knights and laughed, turning away from his potential death. As they walked out they all felt the glares upon their backs. Each Roman who had been in that group made a swift beeline for the barracks and every Roman who had not been in that group quickly found another place to drink.

"One day, I'll kill him." Bors said angrily.

"One day isn't soon enough." Kay grumbled as he sat back down. "He should pay for his actions."

"And if he were to pay, do you not think another Roman equally disgusting would step up and take his place?" Bedivere questioned calmly. "Ronus, perhaps? Would you rather he were in charge?"

"Percival, I don't suppose he could fall ill within the next week or so?" Lamorak asked bitterly.

"Not without the supplies they have been denying me." Percival shook his head. "They have learnt some of what I use and they're holding it all from me. I only have the right mixtures to kill him."

The knights looked from one to the other with thoughtful gazes before sighing with resignation, knowing it was not a possibility.

"We should find rest, men." Arthur said quietly. "Dwelling on this will do us no good. Each of you find your bed and dream wonderfully of his impending doom."

The knights nodded and moved off to do as directed. Tristan sat alone for a while until everyone had gone but Gawain. The young blond boy sat and stared at the table with an angrily furrowed brow. He seemed to be oblivious to Tristan's presence. It was only when Tristan reached for the jug to refill his drink that Gawain looked up, startled.

"More?" Tristan asked.

Gawain nodded and pushed his mug towards Tristan. The older knight filled the drink and set the jug down between them.

"How many were…" Gawain began speaking and Tristan heard the pain in his voice.

"How many?" Tristan prompted.

"How many arrived in your group?" Gawain asked.

"Six." Tristan said. "We had two escapees, like yours, but I don't count them. Only six arrived at the wall." He took a sip of his ale and pondered the boy - nearly a man, sitting before him. Gawain's wasn't a handsome face, though it certainly had attractive features, but there was something captivating. There was a quality to Gawain that gave him such a distinctive appeal. Gawain shifted and his short, matted blond hair moved about his face. Suddenly blue eyes peered into Tristan's own.

"I feel different." Gawain said. He searched Tristan's face for an answer.

"We are all much older, today." Tristan told him, assuming he spoke of the battle. "The youngest have aged the most."

"I…" Gawain paused, embarrassed, and looked down at the table, then up at Tristan, his eyes intent. "It's not just that."

Tristan's mind jumped and perked up to pay closer attention, but his body remained still, his face impassive. He nodded his head to Gawain.

"Tristan, I…" Gawain stopped and sat up straight. He looked aghast for a moment, as though he had just realised what he was saying. He looked into his drink and finished it off, then glanced back at Tristan. "I'm going to go to sleep. I feel tired."

Tristan's recently perked mind slouched back down, thoroughly deflated at having been denied what it was expecting. Externally, Tristan nodded and stood as well. He downed his own drink and followed Gawain, quietly and at a distance.

What had he been expecting?

It occurred to him now, as he wandered along feeling dejected, that he had expected something of Gawain. He had expected certain words to be uttered in that moment. Was it dreaming? Why on earth would Gawain even think such things? Tristan didn't even know what, exactly, he had expected.

When Gawain turned into his room he did not look back at Tristan. Tristan heard quiet talk as he passed that door, Gawain and Galahad it would seem. He shook his head and made for his own bed. He found Lancelot wasn't present and could not deny the relief he felt. He shrugged off his clothes and checked his dagger underneath his pillow, lying down and relaxing his muscles.

He stared up at the darkened ceiling as he drifted off to sleep. His mind wandered but eventually it returned to his original thoughts.

What, in actual fact, had he been expecting to hear?

Tbc

A/N: So, ready for some action:) How long can you hold out?


	6. Burial

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 6: Burial

"Tristan!"

Tristan sat up immediately, dagger in hand and eyes scanning about. All he found, however, was Lancelot with an excited expression, practically bouncing up and down beside Tristan's bed. Tristan groaned and rolled back over, fully intent upon returning to the sleeping world.

"Don't you dare go back to sleep!" Lancelot warned playfully. He jumped onto Tristan's bed, straddling the man's hips through the blanket. "I have news that you have waited months to hear!"

Tristan reached for his dagger again but Lancelot pinned his hands either side of his head. While Tristan was the uncontested winner of style and skill, Lancelot was still stronger than him in pure muscle and Tristan was unable, at that hour of the morning, to wriggle free of the firm grasp placed upon him.

"What is it?" Tristan mumbled, accepting defeat and turning his head to the side, closing his eyes.

"Look at me and listen, and then I shall tell you!" Lancelot said with a smile.

"I'm listening." Tristan said, praying that Lancelot would believe him and ramble on anyway.

"Oh, no you don't!" Lancelot grinned. One of his hands released Tristan's wrist and moved swiftly downwards. Tristan's eyes shot wide open not a moment later and he swallowed, hard.

"Cruel." He said, desperately trying to quell his physical reaction to Lancelot's pointed touch.

"But necessary." Lancelot grinned. "I don't suppose you'd care to hazard a guess as to who I spent most of the evening with last night?"

"No." Tristan said shortly. This answer only proved to enhance Lancelot's questing hands and Tristan was forced to look up. From the expression on Lancelot's face, Tristan had his answer. Despite himself, he grinned. "Well done."

"Well done? Well done!" Lancelot yelled and leapt off the bed, his previous motions completely forgotten. "Months and months and all you can say is 'well done'?" He grinned and composed himself once more.

"Was it worth the wait?" Tristan asked, awake now and in a rather uncomfortable situation. Lancelot had intentionally left him wanting, and not for the first time, he thought bitterly. He silently damned Lancelot's cruelty. Then again… Lancelot helped out, the other times.

"I..." Lancelot stopped and frowned. "We didn't get to that." He looked down at Tristan's groin and his grin returned. "I suppose you'd like a hand?" He asked with the traditional tilt of the head.

Tristan glared. That is, until Lancelot pulled the blankets back and lent his helping hand to the task.

When all was done Tristan lay back with a satisfied sigh. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Lancelot questioningly.

"Didn't get to that?" He asked, mind back on the task. "What did you do?"

"We spoke." Lancelot said, busily preparing himself for his return to the waking world. "That God of his, he's obsessed! But other than that…" Lancelot smiled and finished tying his boot. He looked up with a smile on his face.

"You're in love." Tristan muttered, shaking his head.

Lancelot nodded and looked down and then sighed. "The funeral is today."

Tristan jumped slightly. He hadn't exactly forgotten, not quite. But the memories had been repressed in his mind as though he was refusing to think on them. He stood up and prepared himself, Lancelot rocking back on his chair and staring at a wall the whole time. When both were ready they looked at each other and nodded. This was not the first funeral for either of them.

They emerged to find Bors at their door, hand poised to knock.

"Ah, I just came to get you." He said. "Bedivere and the others are up there, we're to bring the young ones."

Lancelot nodded and followed Bors down the hallway. Dagonet was there already, ensuring that all four of the young lads were dressed. The young ones wore their ceremonial armour today. For a moment Tristan was surprised, it was not the custom to do so. Perhaps theirs was a different custom.

"A sign of respect, we thought." Gaheris said when he saw Lancelot and Tristan staring. Both of them nodded to the young man, considering that perhaps they should have done the same.

Gareth found his way over to Lancelot's side. "Shall we wear our weapons also?" He asked quietly. Lancelot nodded and indicated to his own sword, hanging at his hip today. Gareth trotted off to retrieve his sword and walked quickly back to Lancelot who half smiled at the boy.

Tristan stood silently by the doorway, head down and eyes scouting about. They flickered back to Gawain every few moments. Gawain was watching the others quietly, especially Galahad. Gawain's eyes met with Gaheris' once and they seemed to acknowledge something between them.

The young Knights made their way up the hill to where the graves stood, overlooking the wall and fortress. Here was where the boys got their first real impression of the scale of loss at Badon Hill. The many graves, side by side but seemingly unordered, were none of them Roman. The sword that stood upon each of the graves was different. As they walked up the hill, each man's eyes lingered for a moment on the single swordless grave.

They arrived to find the grave dug and Mordred's body wrapped in pale linen resting in the hole. Bedivere, Percival, Kay, Lamorak, Dagonet and Arthur stood silently by the grave. When the other boys joined them a circle was formed about the grave.

Arthur led the ceremony. He spoke prayers in an ancient tongue and called upon Bedivere to speak the Sarmatian passages. The young Knights noticed several young lads running about quietly. Gradually, all the grave fires were lit and two young boys filled in the earth atop Mordred's body.

At last Arthur stepped up and drew Mordred's sword from a sheath at his side. He held it aloft, resting it across his upturned palms. The older Knights drew their swords and the boys followed suit, thrusting them to the sky as Arthur plunged Mordred's own into the earth. Each man bowed his head in silent respect and, one by one, turned and made their way down the hill.

Tristan wasn't the last to turn away down the hill. When he did he watched the remaining boys carefully. Gaheris stood by Galahad at the grave, each staring at the sword that was barely used. Gawain stood dutifully behind them, Gareth gripping his hand. Tristan sighed and turned back to the fortress.

That night the drinks were heavy. The days following, training was slack, and all was silent for some time after.

When training had resumed they soon learned to press down the thoughts. Mordred was not forgotten, but the mourning passed and the Knights learned to accept the loss.

Maenus fell ill shortly after the battle and remained confined to his bed for several days. He emerged weakened and angered, but could find no legitimate outlet for his anger.

Tristan later learned that Galahad had remained the longest at the grave. He had stayed late into the night before Gawain returned to bring him back. He also learned that Gaheris had effectively destroyed a practice post in an outlet of his anger and he, too, had been pacified by Gawain. The eldest of the brothers had seemed to place some measure of blame on himself, outrageous as that seemed, for Mordred's fall.

Arthur, too, had felt responsible for the tragedy; a fact greatly lamented by Lancelot, for the worried expression Arthur wore everywhere. The general consensus amongst the men, however, was a condemnation of Maenus for the events of that day, and none hid their hatred there after.

Unfortunately for the Knights, and Galahad in particular, Maenus only grew further agitated by their anger. He had been searching for some time for retribution for the 'illness' that had befallen him, and in Ronus he found it.

Danger lay ahead for the Sarmatian Knights.


	7. Culmination

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 7: Culmination

A/N: Sorry for you kids who considered this lot too young for… activities. But they're not, really. But enjoy, all the same. And, pray tell, what do you think so far? I need to know for the continuation… direction and whatnot. :)

"Galahad! Tighten that parry, you're letting his sword too close to your body!" Arthur called across the practice yard. Galahad nodded and turned back to carry out the instruction. He and Gareth had been paired due to their closeness in size, but still neither had enough experience to make their partnership work.

Galahad had grown slightly over the months since their first battle, but Gareth had grown more. In that space of time both Gawain and Gaheris had celebrated another year passed since birth, now fifteen and seventeen contrary to Tristan's original guess at their ages, and each had been gifted with a fine sword from Arthur, and many drinks from the other knights.

Across the yard Arthur paused Tristan and Lancelot's sparring and begged Tristan's leave. Lancelot hid his smile quickly and Tristan nodded, strolling away and tossing a grin in Lancelot's direction.

He wandered among the other boys to observe in Arthur's stead. Though he walked silently, and each of the Knights felt slightly unnerved as he passed by, a fact that he enjoyed immensely.

"Tristan, what d'you think you're doing? You'd think you were our commander, strutting about like that!" Bors laughed as he and Dagonet paused for water.

"Better me than you." Tristan observed quietly, and with a smirk.

He turned about to watch Gawain and Gaheris battle, axe and club against sword. Of the two of them Gaheris seemed to be the better, but Gawain was gradually approaching the same level. Clearly Gaheris was putting in his own tuition for his brother. For a moment Tristan mused that he might well have been hard pressed to beat either of them. Then he laughed as he recalled that he was the best swordsman amongst them… with the exception, perhaps, of Arthur.

Tristan looked over to Galahad and Gareth's corner of the yard, and saw the fault Arthur had seen. Galahad swung wide in his guard, and constantly allowed Gareth's short sword through his defences.

Tristan stalked silently over and stood behind Galahad. When the young boy lifted his arm up to parry a downward-strike to the head, Tristan caught his arm and shifted it slightly to where it should have been.

Galahad's astonishment and annoyance were written plainly on his face. When he saw how the parry worked, though, he sighed and subjected himself to Tristan's guidance.

A few more corrected steps and Galahad was able to walk himself through the movements. Tristan stepped back to admire the boy and backed straight into Gawain. The younger lad smiled briefly and stepped aside, somewhat embarrassed.

Tristan vaguely noted Gawain's lingering hand; it had shot up to catch Tristan, and remained on Tristan's lower back for longer than, perchance, was necessary. Before Gawain could return to practice, Arthur's voice rang out.

"We break for the day." He said. "You've all done well. Go and find yourselves a well-earned drink." The Knights smiled and stowed their weapons. The day was beginning to fade and all were glad for a drink and some food.

In the Sarmatian courtyard they scattered themselves amongst the few tables. On cue, the young women seemed to appear from nothing to be at their sides, and food gathered on the tables. Tristan ducked his head to remove himself from the attentions of all present, and began pilfering food from the main table into his own corner.

As soon as Tristan fancied himself settled for a quiet eve of observation and contemplation, Gawain appeared beside him, much as the women had not moments ago. Tristan started and then relaxed, pushing his platter of food between them. Gawain smiled and added two slices of meat and a small loaf of bread.

"You're not socializing?" Gawain asked with a cheeky smile.

Tristan returned the smile. "It's not my style."

"Your style?" Gawain laughed and broke off some bread, adding cheese and meat to the top of it and wolfing it down.

"Yes." Tristan smiled again and took some meat from their stash.

"And what, pray tell, is your style?" Gawain asked with a querying look.

Tristan scanned about and then rested his eyes on Gawain, narrowing them slightly as he probed as much as he could. What was this lad about? He wondered. Gawain held the gaze for a moment before looking around, his eyes settling on the table after a moment. His food, apparently, was very intriguing.

"Why is it that your speech is so different from any other I've heard?" Gawain asked after a moment. This seemed to be an appropriate conversation change.

"What do you mean?" Tristan asked, pretending to be utterly insulted. Gawain was confused for a moment, before he noted the smile pushing itself on Tristan's face. They both laughed and Tristan took a sip of his drink.

"I wasn't always in Sarmatia." Tristan explained. "I was born there, and raised there until my mother died. Then my father took me to the very ends of the Roman Empire, as far as we could go. He showed me as much as he could. Mostly we went east."

"How many years did it take to change your tongue?" Gawain asked.

"My tongue?" Tristan raised and eyebrow. "I don't believe it has changed at all." He stuck his tongue out of his mouth for a moment to inspect, and Gawain punched his arm with a glare. Tristan just smirked. "My speech, you mean? I don't know. A few years, perhaps."

Gawain nodded and finished off as much food as he felt he needed, and took another drink. Tristan drank down what was left in his own mug and picked up the pitcher to pour more. Gawain seemed to think this an excellent idea and both of them had had much more to drink before the conversation between them died down.

"Tristan?" Gawain slurred, his eyes drooping closed and his head rolling around on his neck and shoulders.

"Yes?" Tristan replied, equally as drunk.

"Shall we, um…" Gawain paused and then looked up at Tristan. His thoughts seemed confirmed and he nodded to himself. "Shall we go for a walk?" He asked.

Tristan's heart skipped a drunken beat and he nodded, rolling to his feet. Despite his intake of drink, Tristan's body seemed to have remained much more coordinated than his mind, as had always been the way with him.

Lancelot made sure to subtly pinch Tristan's behind as he passed, and Tristan swung around to glare. Lancelot grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down to whisper in his ear.

"I won't be returning to our chambers tonight." He said with a grin and a wink, jutting his head towards Gawain. Tristan nodded conspiratorially, as his drink-addled mind seemed to indicate was necessary.

Tristan turned and followed Gawain off, and they walked about in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, as they passed through an unlit alley, Gawain seemed to think it high-time that something was said or done.

"Forgive me." He muttered quickly as he turned Tristan and pressed him against the cool wall. Tristan suddenly knew what he had expected of Gawain the other night, and he also became aware that it was about to happen, exactly what he had wanted.

Tristan's eyes closed as Gawain pressed their lips together, and both felt long-desired surge of passion. Tristan felt a smile coming as he noted Gawain's tentative movements. Taking charge, he turned the younger man against the wall, their positions exchanged, and began running his hands through Gawain's hair.

A moment later, Gawain having gained courage, they broke apart and Tristan rested their foreheads together, his hands dropping to Gawain's shoulders. Gawain raised his hands carefully to Tristan's waist and pulled slightly, a concise indication of his own desires. Tristan nodded and turned his head to look to his left.

"Shall we go back?" Gawain asked, somewhat nervously. "To the sleeping areas, I mean."

"Yes." Tristan nodded.

They walked quickly through the back alleys to the Sarmatian area, and Tristan guided the young Gawain down the hall and into his own chambers. As promised, Lancelot was nowhere to be found. Tristan kissed Gawain quickly and guided him to Tristan's own bed.

As they reached the bedside, Tristan felt Gawain hesitate only momentarily. This, for Tristan, was more than enough information. He paused and held Gawain's face in his hands, staring carefully into the younger man's eyes.

"What is it that you want?" Tristan asked quietly.

Gawain breathed quickly and deeply, building up his courage.

"I want you." He said. Tristan nodded and moved his hands about carefully and tenderly.

"Perfect." Tristan said and smiled quietly. He gripped Gawain's hand and began to shed their clothing. He could already feel Gawain's literal tension growing against his leg, and had no desire to spoil it for the lad.

When they had nothing but their breeches left, Tristan lowered Gawain onto the bed, his spare hand searching for the oil he knew he had somewhere. Gawain lay still on the bed, utterly uncertain.

"Tristan?" He said. The fear in his voice made Tristan wince, but he knew what he was doing, and Gawain's fear would be utterly gone shortly.

"Yes?" He asked, kissing Gawain's neck slowly, his hands resting about Gawain's waist.

"Do you hear something?" Gawain asked.

Tristan lifted his head from Gawain's shoulder and looked into the boy's face. "Hear something?" Tristan repeated.

"I, there's… sound. Listen." Gawain whispered. Tristan paused and listened, his soberness returning and his carefully honed ears now picking up what lust had eliminated not moments ago.

He heard it now, scuffled footsteps and quiet voices. Men, he thought, several of them. And something else was there, a muffled voice, a protesting voice. He sat up and moved silently to the door, cracking it open to hear better. Someone seemed to lose their grip over the protestor's mouth, and an angry cry let loose in the hall, but only for a moment before it was silenced with a violent blow, and someone snarled angrily and gave instructions.

Tristan and Gawain looked worriedly at each other. "Galahad." They muttered simultaneously. "And Ronus." Tristan growled.

A/N: So, are you worried? Yea or nae? ("Which one means yes?")


	8. Comeuppance

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 8: Comeuppance

A/N: I'm slipping into Gala-cam for a bit, I needed the change of perspective for this scene. It'll slip back as soon as our enigmatic lover-boy is back in view. Forgive me…

"Little runt!" Ronus backhanded Galahad for the third time. In an effort to stay alert, Galahad had counted the number of times he had been hit. Three backhands, two punches to the stomach, one to the face, and one kick in the ribs. That coupled with rough handling, was more than he had ever expected to face.

Galahad's pride kept him up on his feet, in spite of the fear he felt, eyes staring into those of his main captor. The other men had removed themselves to a safe observation distance, but remained within the clearing. They watched the beating with stoic expressions; this was no novelty to them.

"You think you can make an idiot of me? You'll learn never to run away again, you'll learn to respect those above you, and you'll learn never, never to look at me with that smug look on your pathetic little face!" Ronus hit him again, Galahad fell hard. A moment of breathing in the fresh smell of grass at night, and then he twisted his body, rolled onto his knees and stood up, looking back in Ronus' face.

"Brat!" Ronus yelled, striking Galahad again. This time he struck again before the frightened child was able to stand. He punctuated each word with a kick to the boy's ribs and gut. "Worm, maggot!" He growled in frustration. "Whelp!"

Galahad coughed and retched, and bit back the forming tears that stung his eyes. He had no intention of crying, but nor could he fight back. His hands were bound, his mouth gagged. He wanted to run and escape, but the Romans would have been on him in a second, and then they would kill him. His eyes flitted around desperately, wishing, praying to the high heavens that someone would come.

He wanted Gawain to come charging through the trees, his axe ready to kill all the Romans. He wanted Tristan to appear, suddenly as he always seemed to, and save him. He wanted Bors and Dagonet to charge in, roaring like they did in practice, and hack the Romans to pieces, and he wanted Arthur, with Lancelot and Percival and Bedivere and Kay and Lamorak to tear in, killing all the Romans, especially Ronus.

He whimpered slightly as another kick fell in on his chest. He felt another rib break, and winced at the pain. This time he didn't try to stand; this time he lay still and held back the sobs that he knew were coming. All his bitter pride was welling in him and telling him not to give in, that he would escape and the Romans would pay for this.

Ronus' face appeared next to his, a rough hand gripped his face and shook it.

"You should have tried harder to escape when I brought you here. Too late, now. Far too late for that." Ronus grinned, baring hideously unwashed teeth. The man reached down and grabbed at Galahad's groin. Galahad's eyes widened as he became fully aware of what he had been brought here for, and his stomach churned at the thought. He turned his face away, burying it into the grass and tried to slither away from Ronus.

"And you know what?" Ronus continued, scrabbling around at Galahad's crotch. "You can't do a thing about it. Not even Arthur can save you, because Maenus is in charge, and I happen to have quite a nice arrangement with Maenus."

He pulled the boy and flipped him onto his back, pinning Galahad's shoulders and forcing the terrified child to look up into his eyes, utterly helpless. The grotesque man lowered his head and started placing rough kisses all over the Galahad's face, despite the struggle that was put up.

"Stop moving, you little rat! It'll make it a lot more pleasant if you don't argue." That sickening smile again. Galahad felt the hand reach down again and he tried to bring his knee up into Ronus' groin. He only made contact with the thigh, though, and as his blow was deflected off the inside of Ronus' leg he felt, with sickening surety, the stiffness that had developed in Ronus' crotch. Galahad squirmed again, and tried to roll over onto his stomach, tried to escape this foul nightmare.

"Perfect, good lad. Roll over and be a good lad." Galahad instantly spun onto his back, despite his better judgement, wary of doing what Ronus demanded.

"Not smart, boy, not smart." Ronus growled and gripped Galahad's shoulders, flipping him over so the young lad was lying flat on his stomach. Galahad tried to scream as he felt his breeches being pulled down, about his knees. He tossed about as much as he could, but strong hands held him down and held him still.

Galahad screamed, but only muffled sounds escaped his gag. Galahad felt the heat emanating from Ronus' body as the man lowered himself, and he tasted his earlier meal returned to his mouth when he felt the man's penis press against one of his cheeks.

Thrashing about Galahad managed to knock one of Ronus' knees from under him, but that only succeeded in having the man plummet down on top of him. Too high, Galahad thought, and would have smiled had the situation not been so desperate. Ronus' grip was loosed for half a second and Galahad tried twisting out from underneath, but he was pressed. Ronus sat up for a moment and struck Galahad on the side of the head.

One blow too many, Galahad thought dazedly. He felt his consciousness slipping and the tears finally rolled as he realized that his final defences were about to fail. He sobbed once, twice into the gag. Ronus had stopped for the moment, clearly angry, but Galahad knew it was only momentary.

The blood throbbed loudly in Galahad's ear where he had been struck, obscuring the night sounds. His skin had split in three places, he noted. He counted them: his cheek, his lip and the side of his left eye. The stinging on his ear made him think it was three. He sobbed again, and wiped his nose on the grass below him. His vision went hazy and he heard Ronus' voice again, but he didn't hear what the man was saying. Was it 'sorry'? 'You'll be sorry' Galahad assumed was what Ronus had said.

He felt a whole lot of warm liquid spill on the back of his neck. Galahad felt ill, praying it wasn't Ronus'… well, his… juices. But then, there was an awful lot of it! Some of it dripped past Galahad's nose, and he fancied it smelled like blood. I can't have bled that much! Galahad hoped.

He twisted and coughed when he accidentally rolled onto one of his broken ribs. Then someone was turning him. Galahad summoned up his pride and wiped the tears away before he was seen. He couldn't see, of course, because he wasn't conscious enough. He felt more bile rising from his stomach, but forced it down on account of his gag. After that he saw and felt nothing, slipping at last from consciousness.

"… a beating. He's sleeping now, but I don't know for how long. A man my size would suffer from that much of an uncontested thrashing, let alone…" the voice trailed away. Galahad wanted it too keep talking. He couldn't name it, but the voice was a friendly one. When it didn't start again he went back to sleep.

"… no change, but the bruises are fading. The jaw still looks sore and the ribs, well, we don't know about them. When he wakes up we'll know more." Galahad smiled. The friendly voice was back. What did it remind him of? Oh, yes. His father. But it wasn't his father, he reminded himself bitterly. He wouldn't see his father until he, too, died. Or maybe he was dead?

"So has he been tended to today?" Another voice. But that one didn't remind him of anything. Well, yes it did. But not of his father.

"The Romans… well, they're not welcome here."

And that was it. 'Romans'. Suddenly Galahad's stomach emptied itself of all the acid it had been storing in waiting for food. He rolled over and his primal logic told him to face down, and the liquid poured out, splattering the wooden floor and the smell! Oh, the smell.

"He's up! Quick, water!" The friendly voice was worried, but Galahad wasn't listening this time.

"Here." Another voice, an odd voice, but also familiar. Galahad liked that voice. He paused and gulped some air, and then his stomach threw more of that vile fluid up his throat and out his mouth, inconveniently passing his tastebuds on the way. Normally he didn't mind throwing up, because he knew that it was getting rid of the bad stuff, and his stomach felt better afterwards, but he hadn't noticed his stomach feeling bad before, and this just hurt his throat.

"Galahad." Another nice voice. How many people are in this room? He wondered. He stopped vomiting and breathed as much as he could, but lightly so that his stomach didn't react again. A mug of water was held under his nose, and somehow it smelled sweet. He took a sip and flushed it around his mouth, spitting it on the floor to rid himself of that horrid taste. Then he took another sip and gulped it down his aching throat, and another sip to settle the first. Then he held the water to his nose and just smelled the freshness of it. So cool, he thought.

"Here, I'll take that." Arthur, his mind told him. The mug was taken from his hand and he rolled back onto the bed. Aches and pains coursed his entire body, and he groaned as he slowly became aware of all of them.

"Galahad, lie still." Percival said, a cool hand pressing to Galahad's forehead. Galahad sighed, relieved to have such a nice feeling on his face. Then it went away and he realised how warm it was under all these blankets. He pushed them away and looked about wildly for a moment, but his eyes hurt every time they moved, especially the left one that was still closed.

More slowly, he looked around the room. Three people, he counted. Percival in a chair beside his pillow, Arthur standing just behind Percival, still holding the water, and Tristan perched beside the door. Galahad tried to turn a little. Four people, he amended when he spotted Gawain sitting at the end of the bed. Gawain smiled a little, sadly though.

"Galahad, lie on your back." Percival instructed.

Galahad's breathing became quick with fear for a moment, and then he remembered that Percival was here, not that bastard. Galahad closed his eyes, trying not to think about it. He rolled onto his back and looked over at Percival, who was carefully crunching herbs into steaming water. He took a cloth and soaked it, ringing it out quickly and putting the warm cloth on Galahad's bruised skin.

The herby scent was almost as soothing as the wet cloth, and Galahad's eyes drifted closed bit by bit. Eventually he was asleep again and Percival continued to dab the cloth over the boy's flesh. Almost his entire torso was discoloured, raw and painful.

Tristan frowned as he looked on. In his distracted state he had forgotten to observe which herbs Percival had used. His eyes flitted over Galahad's bruised face and body and then to Gawain's still form. Gawain had barely moved, barely eaten or spoken since he had sat on that bed. They had been there, the three of them, since Galahad had been put in this room. It was Tristan's bed they had used, it of course being free when they had returned.

Arthur had spent his every free moment in the room, darting between a stern-faced, tactical meeting with Maenus, and a distracted, dysfunctional training session with the Knights, to be with Galahad as often as he could. The Romans were in a period of mourning for their fallen soldiers, though the cause of death remained unclarified as far as the masses were concerned.

Arthur sighed and excused himself, running off to check on the other Knights in their training. Gawain and Tristan had been excused from training that day, given their activities the previous night. Bedivere was recovering lost sleep, but Percival had refused to let up his vigil until the boy was awake.

Kay and Lamorak, having remained blissfully undisturbed the previous evening, now trained the young Knights. Each of them felt slightly frustrated that they had not been able to help young Galahad, and kill Romans in the process.

Galahad stirred again as Percival pressed the cloth to his cheekbone, the herbs penetrating the broken skin in that area and stinging him to wakefulness. He breathed sharply through his nose, and marvelled that it had not been broken in the events of the previous evening. His eyes still stung as he looked about, but they settled on Gawain for a moment before returning to his healer.

"Percival, what happened?" Galahad whispered.

"You should rest, Galahad." Percival instructed, looking down as he rinsed the cloth in the bowl of water again.

"What happened to the Romans?" Galahad persisted.

"They got what they deserved." Percival growled angrily. Then he looked up at Galahad with a sad expression. "They got what they had coming." He repeated more softly. "And thanks to two of your Knights-in-arms, you got away with a beating."

Galahad sighed and almost smiled, but his cheekbone ached and he stopped himself. He turned back to ask Percival who it was who saved him, even though he quite fancied he knew, but before he could say it he passed out again and slept deeply for a few more hours.

Tristan found a chair and sat patiently by the door, Arthur brought in food for them, and drinks. Percival ate and Bedivere soon joined them. As evening drew on each of the Knights came to see how Galahad was faring, and all were relieved to hear that he had awoken.

Gawain, for his part, remained silent and mostly still on the end of Tristan's bed, currently occupied by Galahad. His eyes rarely moved from Galahad's bruised face, and each moment he watched that precious, angelic face, so terribly bruised by that bastard, he grew a deeper, more fiery hatred of the Romans.

If any Sarmatian had thought, even for a moment, that they served the Roman Empire, that day they swore a different oath. They served no empire, and certainly not one that would so harm a young boy of barely eleven years. They served one man, the man who, at every opportunity, stood patiently by his Knight.

Fealty, true fealty, is given to leaders who earn it. And if killing one's own superior officer for the sake of protecting one's charge does not earn the fealty of the men who serve one, then very little will.


	9. Begin

Fealty

By Cerasi

Chapter 9: Begin

"Gawain, eat this."

Gawain looked up to see Tristan holding out a bowl of some kind of stew, a pleading expression on his face. Despite that the expression made Gawain want to hug the other man, he still shook his head and looked back at Galahad.

"Gawain, he'll be fine, but you should eat." Tristan persisted. Two days and all that Gawain had eaten were bread and a little wine. Gawain began to shake his head again, but was interrupted by a quiet voice, laughing just a little.

"So worried about me that you won't eat?" Galahad smiled a little. "There's a first." He grinned at Gawain's hurt look and his surprise, although it still hurt his face to do so. It was getting better, though. Nothing permanent, mostly he was still in bed because of his ribs and whatever had occurred in his stomach when that had been kicked. And exhaustion, of course.

"Galahad!" Gawain jumped. He was a little too surprised to be smiling, though he was pleased to see Galahad awake.

"Gawain, go and eat something, and go out somewhere, and take some woman to your bed, and have some sort of a good time, and stop sitting here." Galahad said, hitting the mark, but just off-centre in his jest. Tristan had grinned halfway through Galahad's spiel and looked to his feet to hide it. Gawain was flustered for a moment and then nodded.

"Tristan, might I have his food, since he doesn't seem hungry?" Galahad asked with a hopeful look towards the bowl.

Tristan nodded and handed the bowl down to the young boy, along with some bread and water. He ruffled Galahad's hair, much to the younger boy's discontent, and turned about and left, throwing a glance over his shoulder to ensure Gawain was following.

"You'll be fine?" Gawain asked once more before leaving.

"Oh," Galahad smiled as he enjoyed his warm stew, "I think I'll manage."

Gawain nodded and shut the door. He turned to Tristan with a confused expression, thinking he had the other man sorted in his mind.

"Where are we going to go? Your room is still occupied..." He said quietly, pitching his voice for Tristan's ears.

"To get you some food, of course." Tristan smirked. "What did you think I was taking you away for?"

Gawain glared and then jogged over to catch up with Tristan's long strides. They wandered out to the kitchens and grabbed some food. Tristan managed to pilfer a few pieces of fresh fruit and they went for a walk outside the fort.

Tristan led them along one of his well-traversed scouting paths, going nowhere in particular. He was pleased to have Gawain out of the barracks for a time, and with him. Eventually they came upon a fallen tree that Tristan had become rather fond of. They sat down and began working their way through the food.

"He's been through a lot," Tristan said in a low voice, "but he's got courage."

"He does." Gawain agreed. They sat in silence for a few more minutes, then Tristan spoke up again.

"You remember the night in the stables?"

"When Galahad was… leaving?" Gawain clarified.

"Yes." Tristan smiled to himself. "When Galahad's back on his feet, I'm teaching you both some stealth."

Gawain laughed. "Not up to your standards?" He mocked.

"Never." Tristan grinned. "I was goin--"

He cut himself short and was silent for a minute, looking down the path, away from Badon Hill. His brow furrowed as he tried to discern the noise that had distracted him.

"What is it?" Gawain whispered.

"I…" A noise came again and Tristan stood, grabbing Gawain's arm as he did so. "Come, we should go back." He said and set off at a run, Gawain in tow.

"Tristan, why are we going back?" Gawain asked, upset at having his lunch cut short. "And why are we running?"

"Are you armed?" Tristan asked, by way of answer.

"I have a dagger." Gawain offered, and then glanced back over his shoulder into the woods. "Tristan, what's wrong?"

"Woads." Tristan said, giving Gawain a significant look that instructed the younger man to be silent. Gawain complied.

When they reached the fort Tristan gave the guards on duty the cryptic message to 'be wary' and ran off, ignoring their questions, in search of Arthur. They found Arthur and Lancelot wandering through the streets near the practice yards. The day was overcast, with little light. Not right for an attack, Tristan thought confusedly.

"Arthur, there are Woads, just outside the fort, they're over the wall, I don't know how many." Tristan reeled off quickly. Arthur nodded and jumped into action, sending Gawain off to rouse the younger men, and Tristan in search of the older Knights. Lancelot went to find Bors and Dagonet, who had apparently gone hunting earlier that evening, and Arthur himself ran off to alert Maenus, much as he despised the task.

Each party of Sarmatians was brought to the stables, and Arthur returned with a score of Roman foot soldiers. The Sarmatians mounted and started their move to the place where Tristan had heard the Woads. Just as the last of the Romans left the stables, Arthur stopped his men and turned about.

"Galahad." He said simply. "I know he's not well, but neither is he safe here."

"Then let him ride." Galahad said, riding up beside Arthur.

"Galahad, you shouldn't be here." Bedivere said warningly, shaking his head. All saw defeat before it was announced.

"I'm riding, Bedivere." Galahad persisted. "I don't trust these Romans as far as I can throw them." That was a sentiment the Sarmatians could agree with.

"Throwing them!" Bors said with a grin. "We never thought of doing that before." The Knights laughed and Arthur nodded, more amused that Galahad was already suited in his armour than anything.

"I want you to stay back, though." Arthur told him.

Galahad nodded and the party started, for the second time, towards the woods. They had not moved ten metres before they were approached by a two pack horses, one less laden than the other, but baring a boy instead.

"Jols." Arthur exclaimed, somewhat confused and shocked.

"Just in case it's not a simple task." Jols explained, and produced a bow from one of the backs behind his saddle. "I'll stay to the back with Galahad." He promised.

"He brought food!" Lancelot said with a smile. "This, Arthur, is what I call a god-send."

"Very well." Arthur nodded. "Tristan will stay at a distance with both of you, and you'll be our range." He turned his horse about to face all his men. "We don't know how many, men, but we'll take down each and every one of them."


End file.
